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The Shadow Be Cleansed
'Lightholder Crossroads ' ---- ::A small village has sprouted on the edge of the Lightholder River where the cobblestone roads from Fastheld's other prominent districts intersect, in the shadow of Caryas Hill and the majestic gray silhouette of Fastheld Keep - the seat of power for the entire realm. ::Sutlers, traveling performers and other small-time merchants ply their trades along this main crossroads - competing for space with carriages hauling passengers, couriers rushing important communiques from one district to another, and the soldiers of the Emperor's Blades who regularly patrol the area. ::On the northwest corner of the intersection, next to the road that twists north toward Lightholder Bridge and the palace, sits a large tavern and inn where weary travelers can refresh themselves. ---- Currently, those guarding the rift are pretty much the usual amount of Blades. As night begins to descend, Norran Lomasa is among the Blades. The only thing that may set him apart from the others is the finely tailored black leather cloak over his armor, and the steel claymore resting against his shoulder as he scans the crossroads. Mounted on Ghost, Harper is just another of the many soldiers that have been in the Crossroads lately. The boy rides down from the direction of the Palace, glancing skyward with a half bored expression. He approaches the gathered rift guards. Norran Lomasa is stationed near the rift, claymore resting against his shoulder as he looks over the crossroads. Paelnor has just ridden in on Ghost from the north. Bandus Flint, priest of the Church of True Light, emerges from the Shrine into a street lit by lanterns, the glow of three of six moons, and the pulsating scar of light at the heart of the crossroads. His arrival is well-timed, for it occurs just ahead of the clomping hooves of mounts bearing armored warriors of the Church: Mace-wielding Scourges on horseback, approaching from the southeast. "Hey," calls Harper towards the assembled soldiers, drawing up and pausing on his horse. "How's the watch, huh?" he asks, the question directed to all of them, though he glances up towards the road heading from the Market."Look at that.." Norran glances over toward the approaching Scourges from the southeast, grin easing its way onto his face as he recognizes their armor. He stands his place among the other Blades near the rift, lowering the blade of his claymore from his shoulder to settle the tip of the blade into the cobblestone of the crossroads. He grips the hilt of the blade with both hands, watching the Scourges. Paelnor's voice causes Norran to grin further, nodding once before answering, "Indeed. Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll take over the guard work." "No," the priest responds to Norran. "You will maintain watch on this aberration. You seem uncannily qualified to stand around in a circle doing nothing. The Scourges, on the other hand, will deal with the monstrosity that emerged from it." Bandus smiles tightly at the leader of the Church warriors - a brown-haired woman with sharp features and cold blue eyes - as she dismounts and motions for her subordinates to do the same. In tandem, the Scourges climb down from their horses and await further orders as the woman approaches Flint. "Figures," Harper mutters at Flint's response, glancing to Norran briefly, before turning his attention back to the armored women. He leans forward in the saddle a bit, shifting his weight. "Don't know how you're all going to find it, Father, right? He's probably off to Light knows where, by now." A carriage makes it's way to the Lightholder Crossroads. Upon it's arrival, the door is opened for a one Winter Lomasa, gently taking the hand of the driver as she is helped down. Her perceptive eyes scan the Crossroads, seeing Blades and Scourges abound, her eyes take on the subtle light of caution, scanning the area again... "Of course, Father. I'm sure that monstrosity will be /quite/ dealt with," answers Norran, forced smile on his face as he addresses the priest. He turns to look over to Paelnor, raising a right hand to wave toward him. "I'm sure that's highly unnecessary, Harper. Scourges fail at nothing, do they not? I'm sure they can track down a glowing man the height of a highmount with little trouble." "He glows," the armored woman growls at Harper. "Won't be hard to spot at all." She inclines her head at Bandus. "Our scouts have kept close watch on the creature these past few nights. He hasn't shown any interest in fleeing." Bandus nods. "It would seem he bides his time, awaiting the right moment to strike." "Likely," the Scourge leader agrees. "So, we strike instead." "Yeah, but.." Harper begins to reply to the Scourge, though shuts up when he overhears the part of it being followed. He shrugs at that, lifting a hand to scratch at his helmet, and glances to Norran. Winter pauses, gently touching the shoulder of the aforementioned Carriage Driver who took her here to begin with. One need not be entirely astute to see that something is amiss here, and she takes pause, trying to take measure of the situation at hand. "Let them handle it, Harper. Our use out of standing around in a circle is slim, remember?" Norran retorts with an indignant huff, raising his claymore to lean it back against his armored shoulder as he begins on a walk-around of the rift. The lead Scourge awaits a nod of affirmation from the priest. Flint inclines his head. She turns to the other Church warriors and raises her mace, shouting: "For the Light!" The Scourges cry back in unison: "For the Light!" And then the even dozen Warriors - some women, but most men, and a few of them even younger than Paelnor - start approaching the shadowy depths of the Imperial Huntswood. The priest watches them depart and then turns his attention to Norran. His lips curl into a sardonic smile. "Lord Lomasa, I never suggested that your *only* use was standing in a circle. Why, you divert rainwater quite well when it falls." The mounted cavalryman watches the soldiers of the church disperse into the woods, shifting on his saddle. He doesn't say anything, still. This sort of thing is definately not what he signed up for, and so he's somewhat glad to be able to sit it out. Winter steps forward, just a few steps, slowly, her gaze turning towards the departing Scourge. She blinks softly, looking toward the Huntswood, and then towards Norran, questioning. "Of course, Father," replies the Lomasa Blade, that much causing him to stop his walk and turn to face the older man. His claymore is again set into the cobblestone, smile visibly strained if it weren't for his helm concealing most of it. "We'd never know if a Scourge was good for as much, unfortunately." The Scourges are gone for just a few minutes, lost in the shadows of the Crown's hunting lands, when a bright flash of searing blue light erupts along with a thunderclap of swallowing silence that shatters windows in the tavern and other buildings around the Crossroads. The blinding glow casts birch and shardwood trees in sharp relief before splintering branches and then flattening the ancient forest sentinels. The air of the Crossroads is soon whistling with flying chunks of wood and glass. A good-sized piece of rough-barked wood thunks against the priest's head and sends the bloodied Bandus Flint sprawling just a few feet from the rift. Winter shrieks, her arms extending and two large fans sweeping our and then up around her and the Carriage Driver. SHe sweeps the Fan's up and with the grace of a dancer brings herself down low, all the while sweeping the large fans up to shield against the flying pieces of splintered wood and debris. Dradin is a little preoccupied with a particularly difficult piece of food in his teeth when his attention turns to the sound and the fury (and flying debris) eminating from the crossroads. "Arse!" he dives not-quite-gracefully behind a tree, stubbing his toe in the process. That's enough to do it. Harper never was the best rider. Sure, he was learning, what with his new assignment, but he still had a lot of improvement to make. But he never was trained to handle a horse during something like /that/. With a shriek of terror, Ghost rears up, Harper trying to grasp at the reigns which were loosely held just a moment before. The boy isn't too successful, and goes tumbling off of his mount in a rather undignified fashion. He knows how to fall at least, and doesn't break anything, his pained 'oof' blending in with the rising noises of panic about the crossroads. Norran's eyes widen as the blue light become readily visible, forsaking his claymore to the cobblestone as he tries to dive down in the other direction, hitting the ground with an unceremonious clatter of steel that's likely muffled by the other sounds of the crossroads. "Shades!" yells the nobleman as he dives down, doing his best to endure the flying debris against the cobblestone of the Crossroads. Norran's chat with Bandus is cut suddenly short when a chunk of wood sees fit to remove the priest from the conversation, however. As the glow within the wrecked Huntswood fades, a lone figure can be made out, running from the shadows and into the Crossroads. Getting closer, those who are still able to look in that direction will see in the illumination of the rift a freakish figure: One of the younger Scourges, his flesh and armor now melted together on one side, his remaining eye wide with horror and the barely functioning side of his mouth unleashing a curdled, agonized moan as he staggers blindly, trips over Norran, and tumbles directly into contact with the rippling anomaly at the center of the Crossroads. The boy's misery is ended in a swirl of ash. Harper manages to come out of the fall fairly well. Sure, the landing wasn't the most comfortable of things to deal with, but he wasn't hurt. Unfortunately, the same can't be said for his equine friend. Amist the flying debris, a similarly large piece of wood comes soaring out of the forest, doing a similar number to one of Ghost's back legs as it did to Bandus' head. A crunch may or may not be heard as bone shatters, the horse screaming all the more as it tumbles...right onto Harper's leg. The boy isn't in much condition to do anything about the scene, moaning in quiet pain as his legs are similarly broken. Winter sweeps the Equinox Dyad shut slowly, nodding to the Carriage Driver and taking a step back. She continues to hold the fans, bright eyes looking up at the lone figure that comes dashing into the Crossroads. She blinks as he runs right into Norran and her eyes widen in terror...something is very, very wrong... It takes a moment for the last of the mercantile's windows to be completely void of glass, but at last the final shard falls with a minute 'ping'. The tremoring voices within come out of their stupor and someone dares to shuffle through the crystaline splinters to a window where they may peer through. A pair of baffled eyes, green in color, appear in the gaping hole alongside the door that once was a window. There'd been another explosion, for sure, but this time it came not from a statue. Never minding the sharp edges, Rowena clings to that window sill while her breath recovers itself, gaze sweeping the now gorey scene outside to make sense of it. "..My satchel...where?" She whispers to herself, able to pry for now just one hand away and pat the floor around her knees. Dradin scrambles to a less prone position and approaches the crossroads slowly, hand wandering toward the sword at his side. "Wot in arse is goin' on 'ere," he mutters to himself. Harper groans loudly, looking down to the sight of the horse laying on his legs, crushing them. Ghost is hardly still, the creature in pain from his broken leg, and filled with terror, thrashing about on the boy as it tries to rise, though of course fails. This just causes it to half rise, before thumping back down on Paelor's wounded lower extremeties, mashing the mail armor he wears quite nicely against his skin. Bandus Flint opens his eyes, slowly, and rolls over on his stomach as he tries to get his bearings in the aftermath of the eruption. His gaze seems unfocused at first, but then gathers some surer footing as the dizziness fades. Blood trickles down from the gash in his forehead and past his left eye, down his cheek, as he takes in the scene. Initially, he spies the dozen horses of the Church - most of them felled by glass and shattered tree bits, whinnying in agony and scraping their hooves with a grating noise against the gritty cobblestones. The three that didn't fall got spooked, and go stampeding toward Dradin. Winter takes a deep breath, and continues to breath in deep, slow voices, attempting to keep her composure. Once more, she attempts to appraise the situation, her gaze shifting towards Norran, seeing if the Blade was taken or hit by any of the flying Debris. Norran isn't terribly aware of the freakishly deformed figure of the Scourge entering the area. He's far too busy remaining face-first into the road with his hands clinging onto his helmet while a variety of debris fall over the crossroads. As the boy trips over the Blade and, thusly, into oblivion, Norran doesn't seem to react too differently. Must've been a piece of biinwood. After most of the debris seems to have passed, Norran peeks out from under his hands. He begins to slowly rise, giving himself a quick look-over before looking over the damage done. His face pales in horror as he notes the familiar horse atop the familiar blade, yelling out, "By the Light! Blades, rise and tend to the wounded...if you can!" This done, Norran leaves his claymore on the cobblestones as he makes his way toward Paelnor. "Harper! Can you hear me?" "Not here..." Rowena hisses to the barren floor. She'd left it within the saddlebags as any sensible person would when making a brief stop for other supplies. What were the odds of that? Glancing to the others within to ensure that there were no mortal wounds present, the healer scrambles to her feet and fumbles with the door to get it open. An opal haircomb drops to the floor, leaving a sprig of curl to go askew. Once out in the street, her attention flits from scene to scene. A pinned bladesman, screaming horses, a bloodied priest. Norran dashes along towards his wounded comrade. The horses are replaceable creatures. So....Grabbing two fistfuls of her gown, Rowena hurries along towards the Flint, dodging best she can the debris. "Get it..." Harper gasps out as the horse's full weight once again crashes down on his legs, his words cut off as he cries out. He draws a shuddering breath, hands reaching down to futiely try to shove the animal off of him. "Light, Norran, kill it. Get it off me," he pleads in a choked sob, crying out again as his legs are battered by the thrashing animal. Winter pauses, if only for a moment, before rushing towards Norran and the fallen bladesman. Somewhere in between the fans dissapear again, put wherever they last were on the Lomasa Lady's person. She kneels next to Norran and asks, "Is there anything I can do?" Dradin's eyes go wide as three equine terrors barrel down the path to (presumably) render him into so much mush. Almost on reflex, he flails his arms around wildly and makes noises imitating the nemesis of horses everwhere, the bear. "RAAR! GRRAR!" The horses seem unimpressed as the man before them gets a couple of tufts of brown fur coming out his ears. Norran frowns when he realizes what it is he must do. At first he reaches for the hilt of his sabre, but that causes him to shake his head quickly. "Won't be enough," he mutters, turning away from the scene. Since he was standing next to Paelnor when the blast occured, his previously forsaken claymore still rests nearby. Quickly, he walks over to reach down and lift the much heavier weapon, gripping the hilt tightly in his hands as he returns to Paelnor and the horse. His own eyes settle on the horse's, his eyes flitting between Ghost's eyes and Paelnor's. With a final gulp, the Blade answers to Winter, "Look away," he mutters to her, before looking back to the horse and raising the blade. "Rest well, Ghost," he quickly murmers, swinging down the blade toward Ghost's neck. Winter backs off from Norran and the inordinately large blade, her eyes widening again as she realizes what he's abotu to do to the Horse. She swallows, closing her eyes and looking the other way, stepping back slowly. Paelnor Harper continues to writhe underneath the horse, watching Norran return with the greatsword, though not entirely seeing, blinded and confused somewhat by the strange combination of numbess and pain shooting up from his legs. He turns his head and squeezes his eyes closed as the killing blow falls, and with a cut off snort of protest, Ghost falls still atop him at last. The horses proceed, not fended off by the crazed flailings of one man. Beastly force connects with Dradin's face, knocking him to the ground, where the tramply parts are. Hoof after hoof crushes bone and rather important organs, leaving Dradin bruised and bent in ways that limbs were not supposed to be bent. Dradin gurgles from his place on the ground. "lil'... help...sirs...er ma'ams...urk..." It's task done, Norran raises the bloodied claymore up from the sight of the butchering, carefully sheathing the blade back into the baldric secured to his back. His hands free, he begins to circle to a particular side of the headless horse, beginning to bend down. "Can someone help me move this off him?" he asks aloud, looking over Paelnor briefly before trying to get ahold on the horse. Winter moves forward when the task is done, taking a breath and a moment to take stock of herself. She nods to Norran, "I'll do what I very well can." She says to him, "Just tell me where to hold and pull and I'll do my best." Shell-shocked by the obliteration of the Scourges, Bandus Flint is all but oblivious to the travails afflicting Paelnor and Dradin. He takes a couple of limping steps toward the shattered woods, mouth falling open blankly, and then he shakes his head in numbed silence. Flint walks toward the temple, muttering to himself in disbelief. Leaving the priest alone to his own devices, Rowena looks towards where the horse had been silenced. Voices, movement, the man must yet be alive. "Don't move him!" She hollers at lungs' breaking point, trotting closer by a few meters to repeat the urgent order. "Move only the horse." And there was little she could do until then. Rowena backpedals a step or two to survey the scene once more. Her eyes squint ahead to where the freed horses had vanished just a short minute before. What was that lying in the road? What poor buffoon had dared to block the path of not one frightened horse, but three? She changes her course to venture closer with morbid curiosity. Dradin doesn't move much, but makes some groany noises. Groany noises aside, Norran is unfortunately too busy with his current comrade to help out Dradin down the way. Rowena seems to take care of it, however, nodding slightly if a bit absentmindedly at her yell. Positioning himself to do the brunt of the labor, he gestures to other side of the horse from Winter. "Let's just try and move it up and off the legs," he mutters aloud, taking a grip of the horse's corpse and beginning to attempt to make the move. "Light's pity, it's alive." Rowena murmurs to herself and picks up speed. "Lie still!" She calls ahead to the shadowy lump, reaching a hand to hold the Shard of Arminas against her breast lest it slice her flesh with every bounce. Maeve. Someone needed to hail Maeve...if the woman hadn't taken notice already. But of course she had. What woman wouldn't notice her recently cleaned windows shattering into minute sparkles upon the floor whilst the dog bolted awake from the sound and flashes of light? "BLAST this city!!" Spits a pucker-faced Maeve, shaking a fist to the sky outside her window once the furry beast is calmed to a manageable degree. Wisps of gray and full brown tendrils of hair escape her nightcap with obsurd angles. Seizing a lantern from the table, she shuffles to the door and throws it open. "Bloody Shadow..." continues the curse as her rotund frame hobbles towards the heart of the ruckuss. Despite the self-serving complaints uttered, there is concern in her brow and sorrowful wisdom in her eyes. An event such as this did not come without casualty. "...what happened?" Harper ventures to ask, tossing the helmet to the side, and wiping at his sweat covered forehead. The movement of the horse causes him to cry out in renewed pain, a small litany of curses pouring from the boy's throat. Marrokamir Winter nods quickly to Norran, taking but a moment to look to where Norran gestures and get her bearings for where to hold the horse. She moves around as Norran has directed, doing her best to take hold of the horse and move it off of the groany Dradin. The task is fairly difficult at first, Norran emitted a rather undignified grunt as he puts all his strength into moving the horse. Even with Winter's help, it isn't going too well. Luckily for the three, quite a few Blades remain who /haven't/ been trampled/maimed/crushed by horses. A few of them take up Norran's earlier request, mostly infantry, the lot of them managing to raise the lifeless, headless hulk of Ghost off Paelnor and a few feet away. Harper /tries/ not to look down to his legs. Though, then again, he is rather out of it, so that could make it easier or harder, depending. "What happened?" he asks again, voice hushed and strained. Winter squeaks as she helps lift, though she's having some help, the noblewoman at least does her part. She grits her teeth and determines herself to get it done, and while she's closing her eyes and concentrating...suddenly it's done...somehow. Guided by the moons above and the fierce glow of her ring, Rowena could see well enough the darkening stains that mar the man's prone figure. And arms weren't meant to have second elbows, nor were thighs designed to jut at that angle. The prognosis coming to mind wasn't an optimistic one, but she was obliged to try. Swooping down to hover over him, Rowena ignores the crumpled extremities and touches a hand gently to the side of his neck, running her fingertips along the ridge towards his collar bone. The neck was in tact, at least, but how faired the rest of his spine? With very matter-of-fact motions, she reaches for the man's belt and deftly casts it open. Next to go shall be the breast portion of the cuirass, if she can manage it, to get a glimpse of his chest before moving him further. So...she reaches up the depths of her own gown and rustles around an object at her thigh. Moments later, there's a sharp glint in the night as a thin, stiletto blade is procured. "Yew there!" Shouts a huffing and puffing Maeve as she singles out one of the bladesmen standing around the horse. "Move aside, move aside! Healer on grounds! What is this mess now?" "Just...don't move, Harper," Norran manages to huff, face reddened by the effort exerted lifting the horse. He takes a few moments to catch his breath, looking down to Paelnor. "I warned them, at the Keep. I told them this would happen. Hopefully this will silence Flint for awhile, if The Light has not been kind enough to slay him," Norran pauses for a few more breathes, looking over to what remains of Ghost. "Ghost, didn't make it, Harper. Could've broken more than your legs if we let him be. It was either you, or the horse. There could be only one." As Maeve pushes through, Norran points toward Paelnor. "Fell off his horse, horse fell on him," he explains, voice emotionless. Don't move? That means move, doesn't it? Harper begins to try to sit up, though his body swiftly tells him in no uncertain terms, 'No'. He flops back down with a loud groan, closing his eyes again. "Have your waterskin, Norran?" he asks, swallowing heavily. Dradin feels his belt being undone. "ey now... din even buy me a drink... er nuffin..." Having had a great deal of practice in removing men's armor from a variety of unfavorable positions, Rowena kneels behind Dradin's head and bows over him to get a good look at the shoulder straps. "I'll bring you plenty of drinks once you're in bed," she whispers over his forehead, choosing to play along with his dillusional thought it it meant a chance to keep him conscious. The Shard of Arminas dangles precariously above his nose, the tip pointing without a whole blade's hunger towards his left nostril. With the stiletto within easy reach on the ground, she unbuckles the straps hurridly, then gingerly takes hold of the armor's edges. After a count of three to calm her own breathing, she squats aside and hoists the plate up and off. "Lay down, you boy!" Maeve pants, coming to hunker down alongside Paelnor's hip. Her lantern hits the dirt with a 'clank' and for a moment it seems she may topple with it. A low 'tsk' is breathed between faint wheezes and she taps one of the men on the leg. "How many are yet alive like this?" "He's the only one I know of. It looks like everyone else, aside from the Blade down there," Norran notes, pointing toward Rowena and Dradin, "Are fairly unharmed. Various debris, but the other cavalry was either unaffected or too far away. Rest were rangers and infantry, hit the cobblestone the moment it happened," explains Norran, giving a final sigh before straightening his posture. "Plenty here to help move anyone." Dradin exhales carefully as the chest plate is removed and winces. "Ow." "Maybe I should'a kept infantry," Harper mutters, looking blankly to Maeve, squinting to get a better look at the woman. "We don't fall off horses in infantry, right?" he explains to her, looking down to his legs then, and staring at the sight. "Is that..my blood?" he asks, looking suddenly a bit faint. He seems to have forgotten that a horse was beheaded on top of him. "Wagons." Maeve grunts, ignoring the wounded man and flagging the able ones off with a wave of her hand. "Wagons big enough to carry'em to the Tribunal. Must be mindful of his bones. No bending." Her mouth sets into a firm line and with waver to her step, she climbs to her feet. "Who's o'er there with the other?" "I'm sorry." Rowena breathes, kneeling at his left side. Her right hand picks up the thin blade and she hesitantly lifts the hem of his doublet. Pop...pop...pop go the buttons, freed by the stiletto's point until the garment can be pulled open. The tunic would be an easier prey. A jagged 'riiiiiiip' sounds its demise before the bruised flesh is finally revealed. Dradin's chest is already scarred from multiple slashings and what looks like an impaling. The bruising adds a little color. "Plenty... plenty a drinks, eh?" "I'll take care of that," answers Norran, left hand reaching to effortlessly pull his sabre from the baldric on his hip. Armed with this much, the Lomasa looks carefully over the crossroads. The blast and the number of distressed and wounded have caused a few caravans to be unable to maneuver around. Norran spots an interesting opportunity, a small, pudgy man in his 40's mounted on what appears to be a tired-looking donkey. The beast of burden pulls an old birch wagon carrying a few bushels of various produce. The Blade's armor shifts as he jogs toward the caravan, sabre lowered at his side. "You, there! I need to commandeer this...donkey...in the name of the Emperor's Blades, to transport wounded to the Tribunal." The middle-aged merchant stares blankly at Norran for a few moments, causing Norran to rattle his sabre threateningly at him. This much causes the merchant to climb off the donkey, answering to Norran. "Alrigh', jus'...jus' bring'em back. I'm gettin' a drink." The merchant grumbles as he trudges over toward the tavern. Harper lays there, not doing much. Not like he can. He's a bit of a mess, but not so much as Dradin. Though he's aware of that, currently. A wry smile touches Rowena's lips despite the grave situation. "Good sir...you will have many more drinks than you'll desire. I *swear* it." Her left hand passes down the length of his sternum, shedding a bit more light on the situation. The cuirass had spared him, that was certain. But by how much? Her fingers deliver a soft, experimental prod into his ribs. His abdomen felt warm, but whether it was from natural heat or bleeding within, she could not yet decipher. He would have to be moved. Maeve keeps by Harper's side, watching Norran hijack a donkey in the name of the Crown. Glorious Success! Norran is quite pleased with himself as the old merchant departs toward the tavern. Sheathing his sabre back in his baldric, he cautiously approaches the donkey. Opening the pouch at his side, he retrieves a carrot from within. He offers it to the confused animal, who in turn begins to munch happily. At this moment, Norran and the donkey have a sort of joyous reprieve, the former patting his new companion on the head. "That's a good donkey," he professes rewardingly to the donkey, who now allows Norran to take his reins and lead the donkey and wagon toward Paelnor. ---- ''Return to Season 4 (2006) Category:Logs